The Sixth Commandment (16 page)

In all that cavernous room there was one middle-aged lady spraying her blue hair with a long aerosol can that could have been “Sparkle-Clear” or “Roach-Ded,” for all I knew. She looked at me disapprovingly.

“We’re closed,” she yelled at me from across the room.

I made a big business of looking at my watch.

“Nah,” I called, smiling winsomely, “you wouldn’t do that to me—would you? You’ve got to finish spraying your lovely hair, and then the nails to touch up, and a few phone calls to your girlfriends, and it’s only fifteen minutes to five, and I swear what I want won’t take more than two minutes. Three maybe. Five at the most. Look at me—a poor traveler from out of town, come to your fair city seeking help in my hour of need. Can you turn me away? In your heart of hearts, can you really reject me?”

I don’t apologize for this shit.

“Real estate?” she guessed. “The plats are over on the left, and if you—”

“No, no,” I said. “Something much sadder. An uncle of mine passed away in Coburn only last night. Poor man. I need copies of the death certificate. You know—for insurance, bank accounts, the IRS and so forth. I need about ten copies.”

“Sorry,” she sang out. We were shouting at each other across at least fifty feet of empty office. “Death certificates go to the county seat. The Health Department. They have fire-proof files.”

“Oh,” I said, deflated. “Well, thanks, anyway.”

“Of course, we keep photocopies of Coburn deaths,” she said. “They’re in the Deceased file on your right, between Bankruptcies and Defaults.”

“May I take a quick look, ma’m?” I asked politely. “Just to make sure there is a certificate filed on my uncle?”

“Help yourself,” she called. “I have to make a phone call. Then I’m locking up, so don’t be long.”

“Won’t take a minute,” I promised.

She got busy on the phone. I got busy on the Deceased file. The photocopy of Petersen’s certificate was easy to find; it was in front, the most recent Coburn death. Chester K. Petersen, 72, resident of Crittenden Hall. The certificate was signed by Dr. Kenneth Draper.

But that wasn’t what I was looking for. My eyes raced to find Cause of Death. There it was:

Congestive heart failure.

I glanced at the blue-haired lady. She was still giggling on the phone. I fumbled through the file as quickly as I could. I managed to go back through the previous two years. There had been twenty-three death certificates filed that listed Crittenden Hall as place of residence. The certificates were signed by Dr. Kenneth Draper and several other doctors. I guessed they were the resident MD’s in Crittenden Hall.

Item: Two years ago, there had been six certificates filed, signed by four different MD’s, including Draper. There had been a variety of causes of death.

Item: During the past year, there had been eighteen certificates filed, including Petersen’s. Of these, fourteen had been signed by Draper, the others by residents.

Item: Of the fourteen death certificates in the past year signed by Dr. Kenneth Draper, eleven listed congestive heart failure as cause of death. The other three noted acute alcoholism, emphysema, and leukemia.

Nowhere, on any of the death certificates, did the name Dr. Telford Gordon Thorndecker appear.

“Finished?” the blue-haired lady called.

“Yes, thank you.”

“Find what you wanted?” she yelled.

I smiled, waved, and got out of there. Did I find what I wanted? What did I want?

Driving back to the Coburn Inn, I recalled the exact conversation:

Me: “What did he die of? Petersen?”

Nurse Stella Beecham: “Pelvic cancer. Inoperable. He didn’t respond to chemotherapy.”

Someone was lying. Beecham or Draper, who had signed the certificate stating congestive heart failure was the cause of death.

And all those other puzzling statistics …

I needed a drink.

So, apparently, did half of Coburn. The bar at the Inn was two-deep with stand-up drinkers, and all of the booths were occupied. I took a small table, and grabbed the harried waiter long enough to order a vodka gimlet and a bag of potato chips with a bowl of taco-flavored cheese dip. My brain was whirling—why not my stomach?

I was working on drink and dip, using both hands, when I heard a breathless …

“Hi! Buy a thirsty girl a drink?”

I lurched to my feet.

“Hello, Millie,” I said, gagging on a chip. “Sure, sit down. What’ll you have?”

“My usual,” she said. “Chivas Regal and 7-Up.”

I don’t think she saw me wince. I shouted the order at the passing waiter, then looked around nervously; I don’t enjoy being seen in public with a cop’s wife. It’s not a matter of morality; it’s a matter of survival. But fortunately, there was an old John Wayne movie on the bar’s seven-foot TV screen, and most of the patrons were staring at that.

“Don’t worry,” Millie laughed. “Ronnie’s working a twelve-hour shift tonight: four to four.”

I looked at her with respect, and began to revise my opinion. I pushed the dip toward her, and she dug in.

“Besides,” she said, spraying me with little bits of potato chip, “he doesn’t give a damn who I drink with.”

“Besides,” I added, “he’d be happy to know you’re helping make my stay in Coburn a pleasant one. He wants me to be happy.”

“Yeah,” she said, brightening, “that’s right. Am I really helping?”

“You bet your sweet patootie,” I said. “Love that tent you’re wearing.”

She looked down at the flowered muumuu.

“Really?” she said doubtfully. “This old thing? It doesn’t show much.”

“That’s what makes it so exciting,” I told her. “It leaves everything to the imagination.”

She leaned forward and whispered:

“Know what I’ve got on underneath?”

I knew the answer to that one, but I couldn’t spoil her big yock.

“What?” I asked.

“Just perfume!” she shouted, leaned back and laughed like a maniac.

Her drink arrived, and she took a big gulp, still spluttering with mirth. It gave me a chance to take a closer look at her.

The face was older than the body. There were lines at the corners of eyes and mouth. Beneath the heavy makeup, the skin was beginning to look pouchy and tired. And there was something in her expression perilously close to defeat. But the neck was strong and smooth, firm breasts poked, the backs of her hands were unblemished. Nothing defeated about that body.

“Where do you and Ronnie live, Millie?” I asked idly.

“Way to hell and gone,” she said sullenly. “Out on Fort Peabody Drive.”

I thought a moment.

“Near Crittenden Hall?”

“Yeah,” she said sourly, “right
near
it. Their fence runs along the back line of our property.

“What have you got—a house, farm, mobile home?”

“A dump,” she said. “We got a dump. Could I have another one of these?”

I ordered another round of drinks.

“Tell me, Millie,” I said, “where do the good citizens of Coburn go when they want to cut loose? Don’t tell me they all come in here and watch television?”

“Oh, there’s a few places,” she said, coming alive. “Roadhouses. Out on the Albany post road. Nothing fancy, but they have jukes and dancing. Sometimes Red Dog Betty’s has a trio on Saturday night.”

“Red Dog Betty’s?”

“Yeah. There’s a big poodle in red neon outside the place. It’s kind of a rough joint. A lot of truckers stop there. But loads of fun.”

She looked at me hopefully, but I wasn’t having any. I wasn’t drunk enough for Red Dog Betty’s and loads of fun.

“Tell me about the places you go to in New York,” she said.

I didn’t tell her about the places I go to; she’d have been bored silly. But I told her what I thought she wanted to hear, describing fancy restaurants, swinging bars, discos, outdoor cafes, beaches, pick-up joints and make-out joints.

Her face became younger and wistful. She asked eager questions. She wanted to know how the women dressed, how they acted, what it cost to live in New York, could she get an apartment, could she get a job.

“Could I have fun there?” she asked.

I felt like weeping.

“Sure, you could,” I said. “Maybe not every minute. It can be the loneliest place in the world. But yes, you could have fun.”

She thought about that a moment. Then the defeat came back in her eyes.

“Nah,” she said mournfully. “I’d end up peddling my tail on the street.”

It was another revelation. No dumbbell she. I had underestimated her. The clown makeup and the tart’s costume she was wearing the first time I saw her had misled me. Maybe she wasn’t intelligent, but she was shrewd enough to know who she was and what she was.

She knew that in Coburn she was
somebody.
Men came to the Inn lobby to buy their cigars and cigarettes and magazines and newspapers, just to wisecrack with her, to get a look at the finest lungs west of the Hudson River, to flirt, to dream. The femme fatale of Coburn, N.Y. As much a tourist attraction as Lovers’ Leap and the place where the British spy was hanged. And in New York City, she’d end up hawking her ass on Eighth Avenue, competing with 15-year-old hookers from Minneapolis, and she knew it.

She knew it in her mind, but knowing couldn’t entirely kill the dream, end the fantasy. The wild, crazy, raucous, violent city drew her, beckoned, lured, seduced. Loads of fun down there.
Loads
of fun.

The bar was emptying, the patrons going off grumbling to farms, homes, wherever. There were several empty booths.

“Have dinner with me, Millie,” I said impulsively. “You’d be doing me a favor. I get tired of eating alone, and I’d—”

“Sure,” she said promptly. “We’ll eat right here. Okay? I hear the meat loaf is very good tonight.”

It was good, as a matter of fact. I think it was a mixture of beef, pork, and lamb, very juicy and nicely seasoned. With it, they served thick slices of potato that had been baked, then browned and crusted in a skillet. Creamed spinach. We both had warm apple pie a la mode for dessert. I figured if this Thorndecker investigation went on much longer, I was going to need a new wardrobe, three sizes larger.

We had a bottle of New York State red with the meal, and brandy stingers with our coffee. Millie Goodfellow sat there, chin propped on her hand, a benign smile on her face, and I admit I was feeling the way she looked: slack, satisfied, and grinny. The memory of those eleven congestive heart failures in the past year at Crittenden Hall slid briefly into my mind, and slid right out again.

“You were talking about going to New York,” I said. “Just you? Or you and your husband?”

“What do you think?” she said scornfully. “He’ll never leave this turd-kicking town. He
likes
it here, for God’s sake.”

“Well …” I said, “it’s his home. I understand his family have lived her for years and years.”

“That’s not the reason,” she said darkly. “The reason he won’t get out.”

“Oh?” I said. “What is the reason?”

She put her two forefingers together and her two thumbs together, and made an elongated spade-shaped opening. She looked down at it, then up at me.

“Know what I mean?” she said.

“Yes,” I said, “I think I know what you mean.”

We were sitting across from each other in a highbacked booth. The checkered tablecloth hung almost to the floor. Millie Goodfellow squirmed around a bit, and before I knew it, she had a stockinged foot in my groin, tapping gently.

“Hi there!” she said brightly.

“Uh … hi,” I said, sliding a hand below the tablecloth to grip her ankle. It wasn’t passion on my part; it was fear. One sharp kick would have me singing soprano.

“Sex is keeping him in Coburn?” I asked.

She winked at me.

“You said it, I didn’t,” she said.

“Let me guess,” I said. “Julie Thorndecker.”

She winked again.

“You catch on fast,” she said. “She’s got him hypnotized. He’s in heat for her all the time. Walks around with his tongue hanging out. And other things a lady can’t mention. He can’t think straight. He runs errands for her. If she told him to, he’d jump in the river. He’s gone nuts. He’s out there all the time. I think they’re making it in the back seat of his cruiser. Hell, maybe they’re making it in our place while I’m working. She’d get a charge out of that: screwing my husband in my bed.”

“Are you sure, Millie?”

“Sure, I’m sure,” she said roughly. “But you think I give a damn? I don’t give a damn. Because you know what the funny thing is?”

“What’s the funny thing?”

“He thinks he’s the only one, but he’s only one of many, son. She’s laying everything in pants. Maybe even that bull dyke Agatha Binder. Maybe even that sissy stepson of hers, that kid Edward. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised. I’m telling you, Constable Ronald H. Goodfellow is in for a rude awakening one of these days. Oh yes. And I couldn’t care less. But you know what burns my ass?”

“A flame about this high?” I asked, holding my palm at table level.

She was drunk enough to think that funny.

“What burns me,” she said, still giggling, “is that I’ve got the reputation for being the fast one. Always playing around—you know? Cheating on my husband with every drummer and trucker who comes to town. That’s what people think. And she’s the re
-feened
Mrs. Lah-de-dah, wife of the big scientist, the first lady of Coburn. And she’s just a randy bitch. She out-fucks me three to one. But I get the reputation. Is that fair? You know what I’m going to do? I’m going to hire a private detective and get pictures of them together. You know—naked as jaybirds and banging away. Then I’m going to sue Ronnie for divorce and smear her name and the pictures all over the place.”

“No, Millie,” I said, “you’re not going to do that.”

“No,” she said dully, “I won’t. I can’t. Because Ronnie knows about me. Names, dates, places. He’s got it all in that little goddamned notebook of his. He knows about me, and I know about him. Hey!” she said brightly. “What happened to our happy little party?” Her stockinged toes beat a rapid tattoo on my cringing testicles. “Let’s you and me go up to your room. You show me the New York way, and I’ll show you the Coburn way.”

“What’s the Coburn way?”